


permissible concurrence

by transitoire (entremelement)



Series: semantics of affection [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/transitoire
Summary: “I need you right now, I’m--” You hear the attempt at stifling agony, the eventual muffled screaming into a pillow. There wasn’t much to do but to listen helplessly on your end, the phone’s receiver sounding more and more like audible hell.Or: over-the-phone apprehensions from a futureClub Atletico San Juansetter.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi
Series: semantics of affection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774777
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	permissible concurrence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sebbiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebbiana/gifts).



> A rarepair! A joyous event.
> 
> Again one of the drabbles I've made for the "things I said" prompt. OiSuga nation, rise! The specific prompt is "things you said when you were scared."
> 
> Come say hi to me on Twitter!
> 
> EDIT: I've just discovered that this drabble's closed at 505 words lmao (Arctic Monkeys intensifies)

You pick up the phone and put the receiver to your ear--nothing but mute sobs and labored breathing. It pains you, definitely, to hear him like this. It’s not as simple as a vicarious undoing; it’s _him,_ after all, your solid rock, the only person who finds surety in every little thing he sees. The glass half-full, positivity all crammed into one ball of sunshine. 

“I need you right now, I’m--” You hear the attempt at stifling agony, the eventual muffled screaming into a pillow. There wasn’t much to do but to listen helplessly on your end, the phone’s receiver sounding more and more like audible hell.

“Listen,” you say, “hey, hey, shh, hey, listen to me, please, focus on my voice.” You put the receiver to your ear, a bit too close for comfort. You hear this person on the line choking back sobs, so you bite down on your lower lip hard enough until it tears open, until you draw out blood. The taste of it is shocking, enough to bring you back to your senses.

“Please, Tooru, listen to me. We’ll find a way. Argentina’s not that far, okay, and--”

“But what if I don’t see you again, Koushi? Be with you again? _Touch you again._ ” the voice on the other line retorts, cutting you short. It’s breathy, the way he says it. Hitched enough to send you off the rails. Pained enough to ground you. Before Oikawa cuts through the conversation with loud wailing, you shut him up.

“And what of it? Tooru, you of all people should have at least a _clear_ grasp on the concept of social media, right? We’ll make a way, okay? And--” you lie down supine on the floor, feeling the hardwood against your back. It pushes back. “Not as if I can’t buy plane tickets. Seriously, Tooru, you should be more excited about this! Argentina! Don’t you get vivid dreams often about being in the Argentine Fed?” 

Silence. No whimpering this time, not even a sniffle. “Y-yeah.” Thank goodness, it’s stopped.

“So please be happy about it, because I am ecstatic for you and your future!” Your quip makes him blurt out a quick _‘ehhh’_ and something in it makes you chortle.

“Chin up, Tooru. I’ll always watch your games. And I’ll come for you. So please, enough now. All this begging would make my mole fall off, you stressing out about a good thing, honestly. And you _know_ you love my--well, in your words--cute mole.” Oikawa stops short of another tear-filled screech and finally lets out a sweet laugh. It’s mildly guttural, honest. There is a success in your endeavor. 

"Okay fine, then. Crying's not a good look on me, either, Koushi." He's out of breath, but you know it's endearing just the same. 

"Damn right, it’s not,” you reply in jest, static in your voice infinitesimally lighter. “You weep like a kid who fell down his bike.” And then, your voice dips. “What’s that about _touching me,_ again?”

“Shut up.”


End file.
